


Better Than Demon Blood

by ADeedWithoutaName



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly worship, FA!Dean, Feeding, M/M, Stress Eating, Stuffing, Weight Gain, chubby!Sam, wg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 22:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16416944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADeedWithoutaName/pseuds/ADeedWithoutaName
Summary: Stress eating. It's a common way to cope with grief, and pressure. Such as losing your brother and then being unable to get him back. It's also a common way to gain quite a bit of weight...which said brother can't seem to keep his hands off of after being brought back from Hell.





	Better Than Demon Blood

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean for this to turn out as angsty as it did.
> 
> As always, thanks to my editors!

As he walked down the hotel hallway, Dean tried to figure out what hurt most.

There were his joints, which ached like...well, like he'd spent the last few months in one position. His throat still burned despite the water he'd chugged and the whiskey he hadn't been able to resist at Bobby's. His eyes itched and felt gritty. His stomach was full of acid. His head pounded. And he was struggling to keep all the raw, festering memories inside it from bubbling up and spilling over. Felt like he was trying to fix a crack in a dam with masking tape, but at least it was holding. For now.

Probably because he had something else to focus on right now: Sam, and whatever piece of himself he'd auctioned off to haul Dean out of the Pit. Dean knew he probably oughta be grateful to be topside again, rather than strung up on meat hooks or stretched out on a rack, with Alastair's hands and tools so deep inside of him that -

He had to stop, close his eyes, and suck a few deep breaths into bruised-feeling lungs as he put the memories back where they'd come from. It took a few seconds, then he was able to start walking again.

Dean knew he oughta be grateful. But mostly, he was pissed. That Sam had done something so stupid, that he'd basically killed himself when Dean's original deal had been to bring him back to life, and most of all, that he was gonna leave him all alone.

Dean stopped in front of the door at the very end of the hall. When he'd turned on the GPS tracker in Sam's phone, it'd said he was here. Bobby'd offered to come with him, had really seemed to want to, even, but this was something Dean needed to do on his own. He eyed the heart on the door with disgust. Like there was any doubt what most people'd use this place for. What the hell was Sam doing here?

Dean knocked on the door. He waited, listening, and heard someone moving inside. There was a thud and a muttered curse. The voice was unmistakably Sam's, and Dean swallowed, trying to slow his heart as it started to gallop like a racehorse. There was a pinch low back in his stomach as adrenaline flooded him, and Sam called out, "Just a second. How much is it gonna be?"

"That what you asked when you made your deal?" Dean replied.

There was silence from the other side of the door for a long time, nearly a full minute. Dean waited. Metal clinked, and he automatically imagined Sam readying a gun or some other weapon.

"Who are you?" he demanded, voice gone low and dangerous.

"Like you didn't do this?" Dean demanded right back.

"Do what?!"

"This! Me!" He put both hands on his chest. "You know who it is."

"He's dead." Was it just Dean's imagination, or had Sam's voice cracked a little? "And whatever you are, I'm pretty sure you know that."

"Fine. You want proof? I've got proof." Dean had been expecting this. He pulled the silver knife he'd brought in out of his back pocket. The door had a peephole, right below the heart, and he held both hands up to it. He'd already used his arm for Bobby, so he pulled the blade across his palm with a quiet hiss of pain. He showed off the red blood and the unburned skin around the cut. "I've got a packet of salt and a flask of holy water, too. If you want."

"What..." It was just a disbelieving whisper.

"I know." Some of the anger leached out of Dean. He didn't want it to, but he didn't have a choice, being so close to Sam again. "I look fantastic, huh?"

There was no response, just a lock coming unbolted. Then the door opened, and then Sam practically threw himself at Dean before he could even get a look at him. He hugged him tightly, almost desperately, and Dean could hear him making the tiny hitching noises in his throat that meant he was struggling not to cry.

His hair, a couple inches longer than it'd been the last time Dean had seen him, was in Dean's face. He nuzzled into the soft, dark waves just a little bit and inhaled deeply. Sam smelled  _amazing_. He smelled like home, like life. There was his shampoo and deodorant, always familiar, and leather from the car, and something like a cross between fresh-cut grass and a pine forest in winter. Also, for some reason...he kinda smelled like a really good burger. Charbroiled, with cheese and onions, fries on the side, dripping with condiments. It made Dean hungry.

Dean was so overwhelmed just by being with Sam again, after aching for him for so long, that it took him a second to notice something was different. The first word that popped into his head was  _soft_ , followed quickly by  _round_. Sam still had all those long, lean muscles that'd made up his shape since puberty, but now they were covered by a pillowy extra layer. A small belly pressed against Dean's flat stomach. Actually, he was a little concave right now, so they slotted together almost perfectly. And when Dean dropped his eyes down Sam's back to the seat of his jeans, he couldn't help noticing that the denim looked a little...strained.

Dean felt his forehead automatically wrinkle with confusion. But he had more important things to worry about than Sam picking up a little extra junk in the trunk. So when Sam finally pulled back from him, smiling so wide it had to hurt, eyes misty (and face lacking a lot of the hard angles Dean remembered), he didn't give him a chance to say anything.

"So tell me," Dean said. His brief moment of bliss had evaporated. "How much?"

Sam blinked, confused. "The...pizza? I'm waiting on it right now, but probably around twenty - "

"That's not funny, Sam," Dean interrupted. He didn't want to have this conversation in the hall, so he backed Sam into the room. Sam let him, avoiding eye contact. Dean kicked the door shut behind him. "To bring me back. What'd it cost? Just your soul, or something worse?"

His eyes raked almost involuntarily down Sam's body. Even with the loose T-shirt he was wearing, he could see the shape of the little gut he'd developed.  _Your body? Your health?_

"You think I made a deal?" Sam asked, swallowing.

"That's exactly what I think."

"Well..." Sam sucked in a huge breath, then let it out as an explosive sigh. "I didn't."

Anger flared in Dean, the same anger that'd been eating at him ever since he'd figured out what had to have gone down. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying," Sam stated.

"So, what now?" The anger burned brighter, hotter. Sam cared enough to spring him, but not enough to keep himself on Earth, too. Or even to be honest with Dean when confronted. "I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy?" Maybe literally. The thought of anybody else touching Sam, but especially a demon, had Dean feeling like he was going to hurl all over the room's shitty carpet. He used that to fuel what was rapidly becoming full-blown fury. "I didn't wanna be saved like this."

"Look, Dean, I wish I'd done it, all right?" Sam burst out, hands clenching into fists.

"There's no other way that this could've happened." Instinct just about drowned Dean right then. He wanted to touch Sam again so badly, but he was also mad, and that made him want to lash out. So he shoved him, palms to chest.  _Soft_. "Just tell me the truth!"

Sam took an involuntary step backwards and sat down on the bed, hard. He glared up at Dean. "I tried everything. That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate..." He trailed off, looking away and shaking his head. "Hell. I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right?" Dean saw his jaw clench under its new padding. "You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, all right?" He stared down into his own lap, and when he spoke again, his voice came out much quieter. "I'm sorry."

Dean stared down at him for a long few moments. At his hair, falling into his face, and the defeated set of his shoulders, and his unexpected...heft. Something tight and ugly inside Dean's chest slowly loosened, and the rage that'd been driving him drained away. It was replaced by a tired kind of relief, that Sam hadn't made a deal and also (though it made him feel guilty as hell) that he'd tried.

"It's okay," Dean said, feeling beat all of a sudden. Not the bone-deep exhaustion that'd force him to sleep then and there, but not far off, either. "I believe you." He sat down on the bed next to Sam, cautiously, and the relief got stronger when he didn't pull away. "You don't have to apologize, Sammy."

A second passed, and then Sam leaned against him. He was heavy, and warm. Dean glanced at him, a little surprised by the contact but definitely not complaining, and saw that he'd closed his eyes. Sam let out a soft sigh.

"I'm glad you're back," he said quietly. A short bark of a laugh escaped Dean.

"Well, yeah, trust me, I'm pretty happy about it myself." He looked around the room. It was pretty similar to every other place they'd stayed over the years in that it was crappy and run down. Kitschier than most, though, with dim lighting, floor-length red curtains, and some truly god-awful tiger print wallpaper. There was a kitchenette, which surprised Dean. You didn't usually see those in by-the-hour places, but it even had a fridge.

There were the usual Sam-things. Laptop and a stack of occult-y books on the table, iPod with tangled earbuds plugged into it on the nightstand, backpack sitting at the foot of the bed. But Dean also noted the boxes and bags arranged neatly on the counter. Potato chips, sugary cereals, mini marshmallows, Little Debbie snacks. Sam liked to put things away, so the cabinets above it all must be full of even more junk.

Speaking of full, the trash can was, too. It looked like Sam'd stomped the contents down a few times in order to cram more in. Dean saw fast food wrappers, the cellophane sleeves off Twinkies, pizza boxes... He looked at Sam again.

"So," he said, clearing his throat. "Nice as this is and all, I think it's time we addressed the elephant in the room."

He could tell that Sam knew what he was talking about, and that he took it the wrong way, because he straightened up and flashed him a very offended bitchface.

"Not  _you_." Dean rolled his eyes. "Kinda you, I guess. Mostly your friend there." He gestured to Sam's potbelly, the clearest evidence of his weight gain, and Sam immediately tried to cover it with both hands. Not only was it too late for that, though, but it didn't work. Despite how big his hands were.

"Of course that's the first thing you ask me about," Sam said accusingly. "Not, like, what I did while you were in Hell, besides try to get you back."

"Might be going out on a limb here," Dean replied, eyes glued to Sam's stomach, "but I'm gonna go with 'ate.'"

Sam laughed incredulously. "Oh, my god. You're such a jerk!"

"And you're a bitch," Dean replied easily. "A chubby one, now." He went to poke Sam in one of his love handles, and he squirmed away. It felt good. For a second, things were almost perfectly normal, and Dean even came close to forgetting about Hell.

It didn't last, of course. Dean was immediately determined to get that sensation back.

Once Sam's laughter and protests had died away, he flopped back on the bed with a sigh, lacing his fingers together behind his head. His shirt rode up over the swell of his middle, exposing a slice of tan skin, a couple moles, and a wisp of hair right at the waistband of his jeans. Dean noticed that he wasn't wearing a belt.

"I'm a nervous eater," Sam admitted, staring up at the ceiling. "It happened in college, too. The freshman fifteen hit me  _really_ hard - just super bad, you would've thought it was hilarious, I went up almost five sizes - so I started working out. Eating healthy. Thought I'd kicked the habit, too, 'til..."

"'Til I died," Dean finished when he trailed off. "Yeah." He looked at the stuff on the counter again. Comfort food. The kind of things he usually went for himself. He glanced down at Sam. "Gotta tell you, though. Eating your feelings?  _Not_ a healthy coping mechanism, Sammy."

"Shut up." Sam scowled. "Seriously, dude? Like you're one to talk." He put a hand on the side of his gut. "I know it's bad. I'm so outta shape. I can lose it fast, though. 'Specially now that you're here again." He looked at Dean and wrinkled his nose. "Think you can try and take it easy on the fat jokes 'til then?"

"Fruit  _that_ low-hanging's gonna be hard to pass up," Dean pointed out. He hesitated for a second, then laid down next to Sam, rolling over onto his side so he could keep looking at him. He folded an arm under his head. Sam'd been fit and trim for almost as long as Dean could remember; it was so weird to see him like this. He hadn't even been dead that long in Earth time, so Sam must've been gorging nonstop on junk food while he was gone to pack on so many pounds.

Dean imagined Sam so bloated he couldn't do anything but nap, which'd probably happened a lot. In between all the demon-summoning and gate-to-Hell opening. Crashing straight into a food coma after eating would've helped Sam pork up.

Inside his jeans and boxer briefs, Dean's cock stirred at the thought of Sam like that. It was unexpected, but not surprising. It was Sam, after all. Fucked up as it was, he'd long ago accepted that he had something weird going on there. And after Hell, Dean was sure that his wiring was screwed up enough for all sorts of weird shit to turn him on. This actually seemed pretty tame.

Usually, Dean kept himself well in hand around his brother. Right now was anything but usual, though, so he acted on impulse, reaching out and laying a hand on top of Sam's belly. It swelled and shrank in time with his breathing, and it was surprisingly firm. Sam grunted softly, then raised his head to give Dean a quizzical look.

"What're you doing?" he wanted to know.

"I don't know." Dean shrugged, one-shouldered. At least Sam didn't seem all that self-conscious. "I think it's kinda cute."

Sam snorted, and Dean eyed him. "What?"

"Nothing." But of course Sam told him. "I'm just remembering back when you said 'no chick-flick moments,' and now you're calling me cute."

"I could always call you a fatass if you'd prefer," Dean offered, completely straight-faced. Sam just snorted again. Then another impulse came along and Dean squeezed him. Just barely, but apparently enough to force a groan out of him. Dean realized why he felt so firm. "Are you already full?"

Sam pulled a hand out from under his head to rub at his face. "It's been a rough day."

"And you've got a pizza on the way?" Dean pressed.

Now both of Sam's hands were out. He rested their heels against his eyes as he groaned loudly, stretching. "I know, I know. Not like I can cancel the order, but I won't eat any. You hungry? You can have it." He dropped his hands with a huffed breath and looked at Dean. Full-on studied him, even. "You should eat."

Dean swallowed, uncomfortable, and tried to shift the focus back to Sam. " _You_ should eat," he told him. "I can't eat a whole pizza on my own, and pizza's one of those things that shouldn't ever go to waste. I mean, it's a kind of pie." He patted Sam's pudge, and his groin thrilled at the way it jiggled some. "Couple slices ain't gonna hurt your plan to get ripped again."

Sam looked skeptical about that, but before he could say anything, there was a knock at the door. As a squeaky teenage voice called out "Hey, I've got your pizza," Sam rolled over to grab at his backpack. The motion pulled his belly out from under Dean's hand, so Dean patted the softened shape of his hip as he got to his feet.

"Don't worry, I got it." He paid at the door, tipping the kid handsomely just because he was in a good mood. The pizza smelled great, and the box was warm and spotted with grease as Dean set it on the counter.

"Should've had you give him my punch card," Sam commented from the bed. "Two more pizzas and I get a free one."

"Just how many pizzas have you bought from this place?" Dean demanded. Sam conspicuously avoided eye contact so, shaking his head, he flipped open the lid. His eyebrows rose. "Jesus, Sam."

Extra cheese, bacon, sausage, pepperoni, ham...the only remotely healthy things on here were the peppers and the olives and the mushrooms, and even they were so shiny with grease from everything else it was probably canceled out. Dean's stomach growled loudly. He had to wonder if Sam was purposely going for stuff Dean would've ordered on his own.

"I told you." Sam sounded slightly defensive. "Comfort food."

"You better have beer in the fridge," Dean said seriously.

"Course I do."

They ate on the ratty couch, pizza and a cold six-pack sitting on the floor between them, TV turned to some stupid comedy. Their hips were touching, Sam's plush and warm against the bony ridges of Dean's. It'd just kind of happened, and Dean wondered if Sam was feeling the same desperate need for closeness, to make up for lost time, that he was. He also hoped he couldn't tell how interested his dick was.

Dean was starving, hadn't eaten since the expired PowerBars he'd grabbed from that gas station. Four slices of pizza and three beers went down without him noticing anything but the taste, which was excellent. He tipped his head back and belched softly as he finally started to feel full. A little bloated, actually. He reached down to loosen his belt and wound up just leaving it undone. Hopefully he'd be going to bed soon anyway. Then he looked over at Sam.

He was settled comfortably on the couch, hips forward and shoulders back. Probably to give his midsection more room. He was halfway through the last piece of pizza in the box and nursing the last beer in the pack, half-closed eyes fixed on the TV. His belly had swelled as he fed it, forcing his shirt up some and his jeans down, and his waistband was digging into him a little to form a tiny muffin top.  _Not going to eat any pizza, my ass._

He looked...content, and it'd been a long time since Dean had seen him like that. Years. Maybe it was because they were together again, maybe because they had nothing immediate to worry about, maybe because of something else. Hell, maybe even because of the extra weight, although Dean doubted it. All he knew was that Sam's happiness soothed a lot of the wounds Hell had opened in him. Or maybe "numbed" would be a better word, but he'd take what he could get right now.

Dean liked this. He liked the way Sam looked, and he liked looking at him. He liked feeling horny without being forced into it. He wanted to keep this thing, this feeling, going as long as he possibly could. And normally, he would've stopped himself. He didn't care right now. He had an excellent excuse to be fucked up.

So as Sam stuffed the last bite of crust into his mouth and drained the beer, Dean got up. He checked the fridge's freezer and, sure enough, there was ice cream in there. Several cartons. He snagged a thing of double fudge brownie and two plastic spoons out of a box on the counter, then returned to Sam. He lobbed the ice cream to him as he passed, then dropped back onto the couch. Wordlessly, he offered him a spoon.

Sam's eyebrows drew together. "You...want this?"

"Uh huh. Salty and sweet, gotta balance it out."

"You know you can eat it without me, right?" Sam tried to hand the ice cream back.

Dean didn't take it. "You don't want it?"

"No," Sam said, but his eyes flicked from Dean's down to his mouth. One of his many tells when he was lying. Dean could never pick up on any unless he was specifically watching.

"You were honest with me before," Dean pointed out. "Don't ruin that now."

Sam hesitated for a long second, and Dean could almost literally see the fight in him, willpower versus animal desire. Desire won easily. It'd clearly had free reign for months, after all.

"Go stick it in the microwave for a few seconds, then," Sam said with an overly-dramatic sigh. "The softer it is, the better."

This time, Dean took the container. He peeled the lid off, zapped it, and then he and Sam ate near-melted ice cream out of the carton. They passed it back and forth as the comedy segued into an action movie. It was creamy and sweet and went down smooth, and the brownie chunks in it were chewy and tender. Sam was on to something with the microwave. Dean didn't get brainfreeze even once.

He was so full when he finished, stuffed with pizza and beer and ice cream, and it felt amazing. Being full like this was something Dean had learned to appreciate, growing up with money and food sometimes scarce. And after Hell...

You didn't need to eat or drink there; you were already dead. But you still got hungry and thirsty. Starving. Parched. Shaking with need while a demon skinned you.

Dean didn't want to think about that or anything like it, though. He wanted to think about Sam.

He looked at him, at how far his round, bulging stomach was sticking out now. He looked up at his face and saw that his eyes were slightly glazed and his lips were parted a little as he panted softly, the pink tip of his tongue showing. It caught Dean's eye when he put a hand on his belly, and he followed it as it ran down the curve, to the button of his jeans. Him undoing it made Dean realize he should probably get his own.

Button and belt open, Dean heaved himself to his feet with a grunt. He stepped over the empty beer bottles, the pizza box, and the carton of ice cream with two plastic spoons in the bottom, surprised Sam hadn't made him clean any of it up yet. He went straight to the kitchenette and looked over the counter, hands on his hips. Finally, he chose a bag of plain potato chips.

Sam eyed him uncertainly as he came back to the couch, then sighed and shook his head.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he stated.

"Are you trying to tell me you ain't craving something salty after the ice cream?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. "'Cause I know I am. What kinda binge eater are you?"

"If you and me are gonna start hunting again, I need to drop the weight." Sam patted his stomach with a grunt. "And if I'm gonna do that, I need to stop eating 'til I can't move. I don't have to do this anymore; you're back. And we need to figure out how. I've gotta be at peak performance for that."

Dean couldn't help the snort or the eye-roll that "peak performance" pulled out of him. "Wow. You couldn't be any geekier if you tried, huh?" He opened the bag of chips with a squeak of plastic and a puff of air, then sat down. He set the chips aside for a second so that he could lay a hand on Sam again, gently feel out the shape of him. His bloated gut and the love handles that flanked it. His thickened thighs and hips. Dean was so close that his own overfed stomach was smashed against Sam's, and the pressure seemed to go straight to his cock, which was fully erect now. His voice came out as a husky murmur when he spoke again. "You're really full, huh?"

"So're you," Sam said with a huff. Dean couldn't tell if he was exasperated or just full, like he'd pointed out.

Dean didn't answer. Just closed his eyes and leaned in before he could talk himself out of it, and kissed Sam. His mouth was already open, so Dean went for broke. He tasted beer and pizza and ice cream, just like he'd expected. But also  _Sam_ , a concentrated version of his most basic smells. Dean let his tongue find its way past his lips as he petted his belly with one hand and brought the other up to touch Sam's longer hair. He didn't hold onto it, because he was expecting Sam to pull away. Wouldn't blame him in the slightest if he did. Dean knew exactly how selfish he was being right now.

Sam didn't pull away, though. He almost seemed to welcome this, body relaxing and mouth opening a little wider. Then he kissed back, pushing against Dean, putting an arm around him. Dean could feel his heartbeat, faintly, in his stomach, going about a million miles an hour. Acting on a hunch, Dean squeezed him gently. Sam moaned into his mouth, legs juddering. Not like Dean had ever really seen him have sex or fool around with himself, but he could figure out what that meant easily enough.

It didn't last long, though. Right after that, Sam broke the kiss. Dean opened his eyes as he turned away and, after a second's hesitation, took his hands off of him.

"Sorry," he said roughly, clearing his throat. It didn't matter how long they'd been apart. There was no way that could've been mistaken for a brotherly kiss.

Sam'd definitely seemed to enjoy it. But that probably didn't matter, either.

"You don't have to do this." It came out as something less than a whisper. In contrast, Sam loudly swallowed. "Not for me."

Dean put his hand back on Sam's middle and rubbed, half his fingers on his T-shirt and the others on his bare skin. It was hot, and smooth where it wasn't scarred. Dean leaned in again and buried his face in Sam's hair where it lapped over his neck. He nuzzled at the bare skin underneath.

"I wanna do this. I need this." He rolled his wrist and heard a sharp breath hiss into Sam's mouth. "C'mon. C'mere." He pulled Sam closer and held back a grunt. He was  _heavy._ With no space at all left between the two of them, Dean reached back and grabbed the chips. Sam turned to look at him when he heard the crinkle of plastic, and Dean shook the bag enticingly. "Keep eating."

An hour later, the skin of Sam's stomach had started to feel taut against Dean's hands. The potato chips had been followed by Oreos, all washed down with a few more beers. There'd been kisses, touches, hot and frantic. Dean was aching and leaking in his pants, and he was more than close enough to Sam to see that he was every bit as hard.

Dean was straddling his brother's thighs, his swollen belly brushing against Sam's with every movement. He honestly felt like he was about to pop, but his gut was dwarfed by Sam's. Totally free of his shirt and jeans by now, it was round and heavy, and it looked like he'd swallowed a soccer ball. Dean was pretty sure they were both a little drunk. Sam wasn't the only one who'd had more beer. Whatever inhibitions he'd had before were completely gone now. He put his hands on Sam's love handles. They were, admittedly, not all that big, but he marveled at the way his palms sank in anyhow.

"God, you got so fat while I was gone." Dean leaned in to snag a wet, open-mouthed kiss. "Good thing for you it was only a few months, huh?"

"If you're not careful, you're gonna wind up in the same boat." Sam's callused knuckles brushed against Dean's stomach, then dug in. Dean's eyelids fluttered, and he growled as he felt precome spurt into his boxers. He took a second to get himself under control, staring down at Sam. His pupils were wide, mouth open, cheeks flushed. He made eye contact with Dean and said, "I can eat more. A lot more."

"Yeah, I don't doubt it." Dean patted Sam's belly. "But I don't want you to. Know why?" He leaned in, stomach pressing against Sam's, to whisper into his ear. "You get too full and I'm not gonna be able to fuck you tonight."

Dean jumped when Sam's hand suddenly landed on his ass. He pushed his hips back into it appreciatively as he squeezed. It felt nice, to be touched like that. By Sam. It felt nice to enjoy it.

"You like the sound of that?" Dean breathed. "Want me to roll you to the bed?"

"You're at least gonna have to help me up." Sam let go of Dean so he could do that.

Dean pulled Sam off the couch and to his feet, then waited for him by the bed, watching the way he walked. It wasn't quite a waddle, but almost. As soon as he got close enough, Dean practically ripped his shirt off him. He was oddly disappointed to see that his pecs were still flat and sharp. For the most part. No motorboating tonight, Dean guessed.

Sam kicked his shoes off and Dean carefully lowered himself to his knees so he could pull his jeans down, kissing and worshiping his girth as he did so. He mouthed at the shape of his boner, the bulge in his underwear framed by his open fly, and grabbed his belt loops. He pulled, but the jeans stayed put. It took a good, hard yank to get them off Sam's ass, and then Dean had to contend with his thighs.

"Jesus," he grunted. "What'd you do, paint these on?"

Sam chuckled, throaty but also a little sheepish. "Yeah, I need new ones. Least 'til I'm back down to my old size."

"I don't know. I'd rather see you burst outta these." Dean finally finished up with the jeans, then peeled Sam's boxer briefs off. His erection sprang free, nearly hitting Dean in the face, and he stared at it with awe. "Holy  _shit,_ Sammy. You gain weight here, too?"

"You've see it before," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah - I know." It was kind of unavoidable when you lived out of each other's pockets. "Never up close like this, though."

He made to grab it, having some vague idea of putting it in his mouth, but Sam moved back before he could touch him. Dean looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't need any foreplay," Sam assured him. "Trust me."

Dean felt his head fall slightly to the side in confusion, then he got what Sam meant. He climbed back to his feet, groaning, and gestured to the sagging mattress. "Get on the bed, then."

Dean put a pillow under Sam's hips once he'd laid down and spread himself out. His eyes naturally fell on Sam's cock, resting against the underside of his belly like it was the most natural thing in the world, as he started to strip. Sam leaned to the side so he could see around his own stomach, and something about that was just hugely hot to Dean. Until he got his shirt off and Sam's eyes widened, at least.

"You're - "

"Yeah." Dean touched his chest, going all the way down to the bulge of his food baby. There were no scars, not from the hellhounds or Sam shooting him point-blank with rock salt a few years ago or any of the thousand other wounds he'd picked up since he was little. And even if there had been, there were no calluses on his hands to catch on them. He couldn't believe Sam hadn't noticed it before now. He stepped out of his boots and dropped his pants and drawers. "I came outta the ground like this."

"What's..." As Dean climbed onto the bed, Sam touched the only mark on his body: the handprint on his shoulder, red and raised. Dean shook his head when he trailed off.

"No idea."

"Does it hurt?" Sam asked softly, fingertips just barely resting against it.

"No." Of course it did; it was a burn. But it might as well not have. Dean had gained a whole new appreciation for pain recently.

"How - "

"Look. Sam." Dean interrupted him, then didn't say anything else. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't want to speculate about how he'd gotten out of Hell or what'd restored his body. He didn't even want to think about any of it. He just wanted to lose himself in Sam's softness and solidity, bury himself in those curves and that warmth. He wanted to enjoy himself because that might help him forget. And because he already knew he wasn't going to heal, not from this, forgetting for as long as he could was the next best thing

He didn't wanna say any of that, though, wasn't even sure how to get it from his brain to his tongue. Luckily for him, Sam seemed to understand without him even trying. Just like he always had. He put a hand on the back of Dean's skull and guided him down into a kiss. When Dean had to lift his head again, he could feel a thin strand of saliva between their lower lips. It was like something out of a goddamn hentai.

It broke when, panting, he asked Sam, "You got any lube around here?"

"I've got lotion," Sam answered, equally breathless.

"Yeah, I'm not putting that up your ass." Dean moved down the bed. "Just gonna have to improvise, I guess."

He wound up kneeling on the ground next to the bed, full stomach pressed uncomfortably against the metal frame, Sam's round ass in his face. He grabbed his thighs and spread them wide, hearing Sam grunt softly at being manipulated. Dean nosed his balls out of the way, let the edges of his lips brush against the dark pucker of Sam's entrance, and smiled when he trembled. He gave the dusky skin a lick, and of course the muscles automatically tightened. But as he put his mouth to work in earnest, the scents of musk and precome filling his nose, Sam slowly started to relax.

Dean was good at this. It was easy to focus on it entirely, and just let everything else slide away.

As he lapped at Sam's hole, probing the ring with his tongue, he squeezed his ass with both hands. There was just so much there. Once he was finally able to lick into Sam in earnest, he moved his hands up above his head, to his belly. Sam was loudly moaning, and Dean didn't know if it was from his tongue or from the rubbing and kneading of his hands. Either way, he was pretty sure there was already a wet spot on the floor between his knees, from all the precome he was drooling out.

"Fuck, you're tight," Dean rasped against Sam's opening when he had to come up for air.

"Not like I've been having a lot of sex lately." Sam's voice was a little dry.

Dean went back to working him slowly open with his mouth, adding his fingers to the quivering, dripping hole before too much longer. By the time Sam was elastic enough for Dean to stretch him open with both thumbs, making him hiss at the burn, he knew he was ready to take his cock. He just hoped the spit would be enough. He patted Sam's hip.

"Okay." Dean's voice came out as a growl. "Roll over."

Sam groaned, sounding almost exactly the same as when he'd been twelve and Dad had asked him to clean the guns. His voice was deeper now, but that was just about the only difference.

"C'mon, tubby. You gotta." Dean gave Sam a push that didn't budge him at all, then tugged the pillow out from underneath him. "If you want me to give it to you, at least. No way we can do it front-to-front with this monster in the way." He slapped a hand onto Sam's gut - gently, of course. Sam still flinched a little. "Let's go. Up and at 'em."

Sam groaned again, but did as he was told. "Fine." Muscles stood out in his thighs and arms as he heaved himself over. Practically everything below his chest jiggled with the movement, and once he was on all fours, the weight of his overstuffed belly pulled his back down in a sharp curve. He glanced back at Dean, panting with his mouth open, eyes half-closed, sweaty hair hanging in his face. Dean swallowed.

He heaved his own weight up onto the bed behind Sam, putting a hand on his back right above his ass. God, he was even soft here. Dean worked up a good-sized wad of saliva in his aching mouth. It took a while. When he had it, he spat it into his hand, then used it to slick up his cock. Sam whined impatiently in the back of his throat.

"Please," he begged. "De, c'mon. Do it. Take me. I need this. I've needed it for...for a long time."

The tiniest bit of warmth flickered in Dean's stomach.

"You've waited this long," he pointed out. "Couple more seconds ain't gonna kill you."

He did his best to only make it a couple more seconds, not wanting to keep Sam waiting any longer than he had to. He was still kind of worried about spit not being enough, but when Dean lined himself up and pushed in, things went smoothly. It took some work, of course. Sam was still so tight. But Dean had done his job well, as always, so at least it didn't hurt.

"Fuck," Dean whispered as he eased in, having to sink his teeth into his lower lip so that he didn't come right off the bat. "Tight." He had both hands on Sam's hips, and when Dean's own hit the rounded cushion of his ass, he squeezed appreciatively.  _"Fat."_

In a roundabout way, Dean was the reason Sam had put on all this weight. And he really liked that.

Dean didn't feel like he had the time or the patience to draw this out or build it up, so he pretty much went from zero to sixty. Pulled back so only his head was still sheathed in Sam, drove forward with all the power he could wring out of his legs and back, and saw stars when their balls slapped together. His stuffed belly brushed against Sam's back, too, and that felt better than he would've expected. He did it all again and again, faster each time. Sam's prostate was a swollen bud that Dean rammed into then glided past, and his muscles flexed and clenched around him.

It wasn't like Sam was just sitting there and taking it, either. Sex noises that Dean was only passingly familiar with poured out of him, grunts and growls and moans. He was bucking back against Dean like an animal in heat, trying to get closer to him. When Dean happened to glance at his hands, he saw that his fingers were claws against the ugly duvet, knuckles white.

Dean's hands were close enough to Sam's belly to feel how violently everything inside of him was sloshing. He must have a ton of room left, for it to move around so much; Dean himself was pretty much packed solid. God, Sam was just fucking huge. Dean could see that, feel it, sense it. His Sammy'd been big since he started hitting growth spurts like potholes on a country road, really big, bigger than Dean. And now he'd grown even more. Might keep growing. Hopefully would.

Right now, in the vulnerability of sex, of their first time together, Dean could recognize how safe that made him feel. Like nothing that wanted to hurt him could ever get past the bulk of the man he was fucking right now, not ever again. Like he didn't have to be the big brother anymore.

Dean's thoughts were shattered when Sam suddenly belched, loudly. It wasn't like that was a surprise, with the way he was scrambling his guts right now, but Dean could tell it embarrassed him, his shoulders hunching as a blush spread across his upper back. Normally, a burp during sex wouldn't've been a turn-on. At all. But, well...tonight...

Something seated far back between Dean's hips quivered, which translated into a twitching of his cock and a blurt of precome spilled in Sam's ass. It was awkward and meant that he had to stop thrusting, which was practically agony, but Dean crushed his own stomach against Sam's back so he could press a kiss to the spot where his neck met it. He tasted salty, and his hair tickled Dean's nose. With both hands, he felt out Sam's belly, hanging heavy underneath him. It was so  _solid_ against his palms. With one hand, Dean traced the bulge of it down to Sam's cock, which he grabbed and squeezed. The skin was silky around the hardness inside.

"Make whatever noises you need to, piglet," Dean growled into Sam's flesh. He wanted to bite him, but held back. That was Hell talking. He might go too far. "I don't care."

Sam was breathing hard, and there was a shake in his muscles. "I'm close, De," he whispered.

Dean was, too, honestly. He patted Sam's gut with the one hand he still had on it, and kept the other on his dick as he straightened up. Then he started moving again. Most of his boy, especially his stomach, protested. But he was really only focusing on the one or two parts that didn't right now.

When Sam had said that he was close, he hadn't been kidding. It only took a couple strokes from Dean's hand and cock to have him shouting wordlessly, head dropping and shoulders coming up as his entire body tensed. His channel clamped down on Dean's dick like a fist, holding him in place for the pulsing of his prostate, and Dean could practically hear come splattering the stripes on the comforter.

It must've been a good one, with how long Sam's noises and muscle spasms went on. Dean moved his hand and his hips, doing his best to jerk and fuck him through it. Sam's climax was so powerful, in fact, and so...enduring that Dean had to wonder just how long it'd been since he'd gotten off.

When it was over, Sam nearly went down. Hard. Dean caught him, leaning forward again so his free arm could swing up right above his bloated stomach, grimacing as his own was smashed against Sam's back again. That much weight coming down on a belly that full, on a bed this hard, would hurt like hell, at the very least.

Dean let go of Sam's rapidly-softening member so he could hold him up with both arms, at least until he got his own working again. His thighs shook with the effort, overfed stomach aching as his core tried to take some of the burden, and his back twinged with pain. He knew the position sucked and all, but just how much had Sam gained?

He was so soft, so round, so  _heavy_. When he finally took his own weight again, Dean straightened up and planted his hands on Sam's ample flanks, appreciating the curve. Between that and the feel of his hole around Dean's cock, loosened by him coming, Dean didn't think he'd ever been more turned on in his life. His balls ached.

He was over the edge before long, after a few quick thrusts that forced an honest-to-god whimper out of his oversensitive brother. Then he was coming, so hard it hurt, a gut-wrenching burst of razor-sharp pleasure that wrenched itself through his whole body. It felt like waking up underground, in agony but no longer in Hell. It felt like that first drink of water, his throat so dry it burned like alcohol on an open wound. It felt like finding Sam alive and well. And knowing he'd been scarred by this whole thing, too.

But there was still a second, as Dean's orgasm was wrung out of him by Sam's changed body, where he forgot who Alastair even was.

His face tingled, his vision blurred to the point where he had to close his eyes, and his legs shook. No wonder it felt like Dean'd shot himself dry when he tugged his wilted dick free of Sam's asshole, creamy white dribbling out of it and down the back of his balls. There was an ache up inside him, but it was a good hurt, almost like a pulled muscle.

A long, low groan slid out of Sam, almost the same way Dean's come was, and he slowly lowered his front half down onto the bed with shaking arms. His ass stayed up in the air, big and round and on display. His hole was reddened, swollen, and hadn't closed all the way. Dean swayed on his knees as he examined the way he'd stretched him and the way what he'd pumped into him was now leaking out. He almost expected an interested twitch from his cock, or at least his balls, refractory period be damned, but nope. His groin was practically numb. Dean was completely spent.

He slumped onto the mattress beside Sam. He could feel every spring in the damn thing, digging into his aching body. The covers were scratchy and smelled funky, probably covered in years' worth of come that him and Sam'd just added to. He'd had worse, though. He closed his eyes.

Sam flopped over onto his side once Dean was down, grunting at the impact. His weight made a dip in the mattress, pulling Dean towards him. Skin touched skin and Dean, laying on his sore, abused stomach, didn't react. He was just trying to catch his breath.

He was surprised he hadn't fallen asleep by the time he rolled over onto his back. Maybe the pain of the spring that'd been digging right into the center of his belly had kept him up. Staring up at the ceiling, noting how his heartbeat and breathing seemed to have slowed down to something approaching normal, Dean huffed, "Fuck."

Sam quietly grunted his agreement, and for a long time, there was silence between them. When he spoke up, Dean was afraid he wanted to talk about what'd just happened. Or, even worse, Hell. That didn't seem to be what he had in mind, though.

"For a while, in the beginning, Ruby was with me," Sam murmured. He sounded drowsy.

Dean was pretty wiped, too, after eating so much and then having sex, but that got a reaction out of him anyway. He looked sharply at Sam. "That black-eyed bitch? Are you kidding me? Thought she was gone for good."

"Well, she came back. And she wanted to help," Sam defended. "She tried to teach me how to get rid of Lilith. Which I definitely wanted, don't get me wrong. I still want that. I just...wanted you back more. And Ruby said that was impossible." He sighed, his breath coming out sweet as it ghosted cool across Dean's face. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead with sex-sweat, his eyes (kind of amber-y right now) nearly seemed to glow in the room's shitty light, and his soft face made him look young. Like, twelve-and-under young. He'd had a little tummy on him back then, too. "She wound up leaving after not too long, though. Said she, uh, 'couldn't stand how fat I was getting.'" He reached out and touched Dean, tracing gentle trails on his baby-soft skin with the knobs of his long, callused-and-scarred fingers. "But you like it, don't you?"

Part of Dean craved the touch, wanted to lean into it. He even felt the urge to open himself up to Sam some, which Sam had to want, with all the girly crap he was usually into.

The rest of him just...couldn't bring himself to.

Sam didn't know what it'd been like down there. If Dean had his way, he never would. And it was too risky. Alastair had carved the lesson into Dean's deepest flesh: feeling nothing was always safer.

So he rolled away from Sam, sitting up and swinging his feet onto the floor. He thought he heard a near-silent sigh from behind him.

"You said you could eat more, earlier," Dean said, staring straight ahead at the junk food-covered counter. "Probably not gonna screw again tonight, so. You wanna go ahead and stuff yourself 'til you can't see straight, I'll feed you whatever you want."

"Dean," Sam said, and Dean recognized that voice. He got up, groin sticky, and moved over to the kitchenette.

"Twinkies or Ho Hos?" he asked, picking up boxes.

"Dean...dude."

"Twinkies," Dean repeated, looking over his shoulder, "or Ho Hos?"

Sam's mouth worked, and Dean saw him struggle, weighing what he thought they needed against the possibility he'd push him away. It was familiar. It was also familiar when Dean watched him give up, defeat dragging his shoulders and eyelids down.

"Twinkies," he said finally. He'd been propped up on his elbow, but now he laid down again, shifting his bulk so his belly rested fully on the bed. "Guess I need to keep eating."


End file.
